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At LUCIFER'S Portals 
AND Other Verses 



At LUCIFER'S Portals 

AND 

Other Verses 



BY 



PAUL B. BACHTELL 




Baumgardt Publishing Company 

Los Anfleies 

1917 



^6*^ 






Copyright, 1917 

By 

PAUL B. BACHTELL 



/ 

25.ISI? 



©a, ',4 67 5 95 



A Personal Word 

Reader! 

This is a book of verses, and, as such, it may bear 
already the antithesis of your blessing ; but if your preju- 
dices against composition in meter and rhyme are not 
unconquerable, and you will spare sufficient time from 
your business cares and your sweetheart's, husband's ( ?), 
or wife's ( ?) last billet-doux to thumb these pages, you 
may discover in the contents some real excuse for the 
existence of this little volume and incidentally enjoy a 
laugh or two, a sigh, perhaps even a thrill. 

What is published is published ; and I have no excuses 
to offer. 

However, dear reader — "dear" if you have followed me 
thus far — I have several assurances to give : — 

First, this book is not a rhapsody of love. 

Second, it does not eulogize any adorable creature's 
eyebrow (with all due respect to Petrarch be this said), 
nor does it depict the skeleton closet of a broken heart. 

Third, it does not moralize at length; for, than this, 
nothing would damn it more effectively. 

Fourth, if this book, by chance, is illumined by a spark 
of real inspiration, the same may be traced to the mid- 
night oil rather than to divine fires from on high. 

In offering this little volume I am well aware that 
prejudices against poetry are as common as uncomely 
faces; but, nevertheless, being full of folly, possibly; and 



ambition, most assuredly ; and adventurous courage, with- 
out a doubt; I submit the fruits of well intended labors, 
for better or for worse, hoping above all else that the 
most heart-rending of all fates is not in store for me — 
that of being persistently ignored. 

Prejudices against poetry! What a task to combat 
them! Prejudices begotten in youth in the drudgery of 
scanning iambics and trochees, anapests, dactyls, and 
Heaven knows what not, under the befuddling gaze of a 
stern schoolmaster, and fostered in the agony of diving 
hopelessly after the meaning concealed in unfathomable 
classics ; prejudices nourished by the scads of insufferable 
verses that miraculously find their way into print ; preju- 
dices stimulated by newspaper jokes and gibes, and im- 
measurably strengthened by one's wholesome horror of 
the proverbial, dreamy-eyed, crescent-shaped, long-haired 
unfortunate who writes odes to tree-tops and doggerel 
ditties to angels' faces which he sees in the moon ; preju- 
dices that are given the finishing touches by the appre- 
hension felt for the esteemed dear friend who shows 
symptoms of running poetically amuck. 

Where is there the village that does not boast of at 
least one budding poetical genius? Where the town in 
which poets are not as numerous as obesity cures ? Where 
the city in which they do not flock in appalling hundreds ? 

Unfortunate poet! 

Doubly unfortunate poet's friend, who finds it incum- 
bent upon him, as a sacred duty of friendship, to finance 
the poet's indigent stomach that the star rover may in- 
dulge in rhapsodies on foolscap! 

The tragedy of being a poet! — especially an every-day 
lofty-browed poet, who will not sing of anything more 



commonplace than mythological goddesses and the astral 
chimes. 

Dear reader, I have not sung of mythological goddesses 
— some of our modern "Eves" have all the goddesses of 
antiquity backed off the boards, anyway — and the astral 
chimes have tinkled at the invocation of my muse, times 
few, and but softly at that. 



I have spoken of prejudices against poetry, and of the 
hand-to-mouth contingent of rippling rhymsters who fail 
to take the public by storm by juggling such words as 
"love" and "dove," and "broke" and "no joke." I have 
not spoken of the Shelleys and Hugos, of the Poes and 
Longfellows, nor is it my purpose to do so. "Genius sits 
alone in cold sublimity above the common herd," as some- 
one has said, and a plea in its behalf would be as "sound- 
ing brass and tinkling-cymbals." 

You who have followed me thus far possibly will 
thumb, at least, the pages that follow; so, craving your 
indulgence for not writing so well as "The Immortals," I 
consign this little book to whatever fate your critical 
judgment may hold in store. 

— The Author. 



Contents 



Come, Friend, Let's Don the Cap and Bells 15 

At Lucifer's Portals 17 

Greetings 27 

Southern California 28 

Here's to the Prince of Good Fellows 30 

Why Trembles the Earth Under Martial Tread 31 

The Millionaire's Last Search for Gold 32 

Wages of Sin 35 

Like Unto the Vampire y? 

The Pedigreed Lady 38 

The Star-Adorned Ensign, Old Glory 39 

Time 40 

The Dog and The God 41 

Eternal Punishment 42 

Dogmas and Creeds .43 

Fight On! 44 

What Good the Music of the Spheres 45 

From Fish to Man, From Clod to God 46 

My Wonderful Self I AM Proud to Be 47 

Who Is Who 49 

In the Years After We Have Parted 50 

As Golden Years Go By 51 

Lines to U 52 

11 



Sonnets to B 53 

Lines to Madam Griselda 55 

SENTIMENT, HUMOR, TRUTH 

AND NONSENSE 

The Lament of a Benedict 61 

Watertank Station 62 

Don't Heed the Lure of Little Things 63 

If You're Fighting Like a Trojan 64 

Toasts of a Cynic — 65 

In Quest of a Wife 66 

The Desert Rat .-..: 69 

Speak the Truth, Shame the Devil 70 

To My Old Girl 71 

It Pays to Know 72 

The Falling Out 73 

Lovely Belle of Society 74 

Though the Rich Man May Not Enter Heaven 75 

It Matters Not 1(i 

Do It Again 17 

Dutchy's Newspaper Venture und Luf Affair 78 

POEMS OF YOUTH 

Lines to Shelley 85 

June 86 

The Lily 87 

The Dead Rose Bush 88 

The Robin's Courtship 89 

12 



®l|tg Itltb book, <3I bthictdt 

■^To ^oix ll|at Ixkc m^ Verses, — 

JUtke tl|cm, gea, tl^ougli crtttcs, ^reat, 
^estofo ojt mt tijetr axxsts. 



COME, FRIEND, LET'S DON THE CAP 
AND BELLS 

Come, friend, let's don the cap and bells 

And have our little jest. 
While, 'mid life's bursting battle-shells. 

We grope our way to — rest. 

Oh, verily, 'twixt womb and tomb 

We have not long to tarry; 
The morn may bring the cannon's boom; — 

So while there's time be merry! 

Yea, we have loved and fought and wept; 

We've banqueted and fasted; 
Our hopes, to starry heights, have leapt, 

And fallen, seared and blasted. 

Despite all, we've survived the worst 

That darkened life's closed pages, 
And into laughter still can burst 

Though warfare 'round us rages. 

Strange, is it not? But so man's made; — 

A child of tears and laughter. 
Destined for the digger's spade 

So soon his good laughs after. 

So let us don the cap and bells 

And have our little jest, 
While, 'mid life's bursting battle-shells, 

We grope our way to — rest. 



15 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 



Through Stygian waves, at dusk, a spectral boat, 
Mysteriously propelled toward shore, remote. 
Sped swiftly on, with Charon at the helm, — 
It was en route to Satan's populous realm. 

An aged monk; a sullen, vicious stoker; 
A daring gambler; and a handsome broker; 
Two soulmates, who, ere death, were lunatics, 
Were being piloted across the Styx. 

The ghostly band was under Heaven's curse. 
And doubtless none were dying to converse; 
The stoker, though, athirst for information. 
Made bold to speak, and seeming trepidation 
Shook his sepulchral voice: "Old timer, ho! 
You've crossed this Devil's creek a time or so; — 
Yon hell-ward sky glares ominously red; 
How is the climate — tropical, ahead?" 

''Aye, aye, sir!" quoth the pilot. "What, you quake? 
Your voice did tremble, and I believe you shake." 
"B-r-r-r, I am cold, make haste," the stoker spake. 

"Already 'tis too warm," the gambler grumbled; 
Then, to himself, contemptuously mumbled: 
"He scarce would tremble so if packed in ice: 
He lied ; it is not cold, but cowardice." 

"Oh, may the devil roast you!" said another, 
"The rest are in no hurry, bloodless brother." 

17 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 



"Bah, sir!" the stoker sneered. '*I have endured 

Roastings before : I am, to heat, inured ; — 

And, therein, am more fortunate than you, 

Or any other member of this crew. 

B-r-r-r, I am cold," he said, with chattering teeth, 

"A while ago my body froze to death 

In icy sea, where ship was wrecked in storm; 

And though in Hades I am not yet warm." 

Then chuckled, loud and long, the pilot, old; 
The rest were silent, and no soul made bold 
To find out whether he was really cold. 

Dusk upon the Stygian river! 
Through the glowing waves, a-quiver. 
The boat sped on, with Charon at the helm; 
It was en route to Satan's populous realm. 

Next spake the gambler : "I am burning, sir," — 

He paused in speech; — the soulmates, startled, were. 

And, wondering if he had become ignited. 

Stared at him apparently aflfrighted, — 

"With curiosity am burning, sir, 

To know just what is going to occur ; 

And in particular I am concerned 

To know if we poor devils shall be burned? 

Whereas my corse by worms will be consumed, 

Is this still living part of me now doomed 

To undergo cremation 

In the region of damnation?" 

"Be patient," said the spirit at the stern, 
"Enough to know that none of you shall burn." 

Ah, there were exclamations of surprise; 
And heavenward ascended joyous sighs. 
And Charon reassured them 'twas the truth ; 
Said they were incombustible, in sooth. 

18 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 



"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed a spirit, lank and tall; 
**Oh, glory hallelujah! 
Hear me, husband, — do you? — 
We shall not burn at all!" 
And to his breast, the former half-wit drew 
His better half, and answered, **Yes, do you?" 

Some snickered at the pair; the gambler burst 
Into loud laughter, though he was accurst. 
And, soon, the husband, waxing affable, 
Ventured a jest, which was not laughable. 

Old Charon hummed a lively ragtime waltz. 
And creditably, though many notes were false. 

"Sweet music!" chirped the spouse. "Oh, darling mate! 
We'll not be burned; come, let us celebrate!" 
The soulmates, who, ere death, were lunatics, 
Though they were on the infernal River Styx, 
Embraced, began to "rag," and wildly laughed; 
And dangerously rocked the infernal craft; 
And Charon shook his fist and loud did storm: 
"Avast! In Hades 'ragging' is bad form!" 

The erring souls avasted, much chagrined ; 

And, in confusion, murmured: "Have we sinned?" 

And Charon said, with magisterial air, 
While others laughed and snickered at the pair: 
"Alas, poor things! you did embrace too tightly; 
And, when you wiggle, wiggle very slightly: 
Such dancing is, to say the least, unsightly." 

The soulmates hung their heads; the stoker scowled. 

"A dangerous couple, that!" he loudly growled; 

"They must be watched: the great half-wits might play 

Leapfrog, or suddenly give way 

To some new mania, and upset the boat ; 

And I am cold, and hell is still remote." 

19 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 



The sinister craft, through the waters, sped 

Toward the shore of the damned with the souls of the dead. 



The genial old pilot, who relished a joke, 
Winked at the soul of the gambler, and spoke 



"Pray tell me, zvhich luckless member 

Of this ill-fated crew 
Has been the rashest gambler, 

And least successful, too." 

The gambler could think, though his brains were dead; 

He inspected each member, reflected, and said : 

"By the pitchfork of Satan! I believe that I can, 

On first venture, point to the guilty man. 

Let us bet on the question, my genial old shade. 

If nothing is risked, why, naught will be made. 

Diversion we'll have, lest we think too intent. 

On our rather precarious predicament. 

And our dear earthly lives, which, it seems, were ill-spent." 

"But, you sporty old stager. 
You've nothing to wager; 
Not even a soul, as the devil owns that." 
And into the river the pilot spat. 

"In truth," mourned the gambler, "I had forgot 
That Death has made mine the pauper's loathed lot." 
The master of cardcraft was wrathful, indeed. 
That so very embarrassing was his need ; 
He lacked even credit; — 'twas truly "to grieve"! 
Old Death had not left him "one card up a sleeve" 
Wherewith, in this matter, to venture a lead. 

20 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 

Again spake the rogue, who, on earth, had thrown dice, 

But who, now, was unable to gratify vice : 

"A very good loser I always have been ; 

My soul I have lost, but still I can grin." 

And the gambler grinned broadly, though sullen his mood : 

Then queried : "In Hades, is gambling tabooed?" 

The ancient shade, who was a heartless joker, 
Cried lustily, ''The devil's imps play poker; 
Throw missionaries in their huge jack-pot, 
And those poor rebels usually get hot." 

The worthy monk twice crossed himself in haste; 

The broker told the stoker that the puns were in bad taste. 

And the pilot, old and hoar. 

Chuckled long, then spoke once more 

To the soul that looked so pensive, 

To the soul so apprehensive, 

Who did silently deplore 

He might shuifle cards no more, 

But might do the double shuffle on a hot, infernal shore ; — 

Or, perchance, a later dance 

If the shore were incandescent; — 

Tortured by the heat, incessant. 

Do some modern trot or prance. 

The pilot, old and hoar. 
Chuckled long, then spoke once more: 
"Ye scoundrels will have need of recreation 
In that sulphuric realm of dire damnation; 
And ye may sport a little on the side, — 
That is, when you're not being purified." 

The soulmates, much relieved, in concord sighed; 

The ex-coal heaver smote his breast and cried: 

"Land lubbers in this ancient tub! 

Hurrah for old Beelzebub! 

I thought that I would have to stoke. 

Without a rest in fumes and smoke. 

As long as there is coal or coke." 

21 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 

The gambler rejoiced, 

Though his joy was not voiced, 

That he might be privileged to revel and game ; 

But the sorrowful contemplation soon came: 

''You sporty old stager, 
You've nothing to wager, 
Not even a soul, as the devil owns that!" 
And into the river of hell he spat. 

The gambler was wishing that he were extinct 
When the pilot looked at him shrewdly and winked : — 

''You have not told me who. 
In this unearthly crew. 

Has been the rashest gambler and least success- 
ful, too." 

The gambler inspected the sullen stoker. 

The soulmates, the monk, and then the broker. 

The gambler could think, though his brains had died. 

So after reflecting awhile he replied : 

"The luckless monk, before his bones were laid 
To welcome rest, the rashest venture made : 
It dearly cost him love and worldly pleasures 
To play his game for doubtful heavenly treasures ; 
He played to win a big celestial stake. 
What more uncertain venture could man make? 
And had he been successful, — -well, 
He would not be en route to hell." 

Old Charon chuckled long, then scratched his head, 
And to the cocksure, brazen gambler said : 
"Our holy brother, sir, from grace ne'er fell; 
He goes on missionary work to hell." 

"What — what is that?" the gambler gasped, "Is't so? 
And has he treasures in heaven, do you know?" 

22 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 

"Indeed he has," the ancient shade averred, 
"And treasures with him, too, upon my word.'* 

The curious gambler, at the monk, did stare ; 
That worthy spirit was absorbed in prayer. 
"So he has really been in paradise! 
And is he, then, an angel in disguise?" 

"Hist! more of that anon. Now cock your ear, 
And gaze upon this woeful broker, here. 

''He is the luckless member 

Of this unearthly crew, 
Who was the rashest gambler, 

And the least successful, too. 

"Time was when the rogue had wealth and brains; 
(Aye, valueless, now, are the paltry remains) 

Dear to him, then, was his life : 
The rogue recklessly jeopardized his name; 
Staked honor and life, and played his game ; — 

And the prize was his neighbor's wife. 

He staked his salvation, so many did claim ; 
He squandered his coin on the giddy dame, 

And, oh, how the cold cash went! — 
(To stir up a hornets' nest of woes) 
He stole her from under her husband's nose, — 

An every-day event! 

Now, dutiful Satan, in this game of sin 
Held a promising hand, and played to win 

Three souls, without delay: 
And the Conqueror Worm, in the background lurked 
While the venom of Eden's old Serpent worked ; — 

The husband made a play. 

23 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 

"The blood of the husband, the blood of the fool, 
Did mix on the floor in a crimson pool ; 

And a widow stared, wild-eyed; 
And the lover bewailed, as he gave up the ghost : 
*Oh, I was a fool! All, all is lost!' 

The woman wailed o'er each homicide. 

"The rogue had to leave all his credit and cash ; 
He won nothing, lost all, in his venture, rash. 

To win but a paltry thing. 
And the rogue, in the region, infernal, I say, 
Will repent of his folly, while his clay 

On earth lies mouldering." 

The gambler could think, though his brains were dead, 

And, thoughtfully, to the pilot, he said: 

" 'Twas folly, indeed, to stake honor and life 

In an effort to win another man's wife ; 

And as he is now in the realm of damnation, 

I judge that he lost his chance of salvation. 

And, as in my case, so he will lament 

That he lost his dear flesh, ere his riches were spent. 

His leaving the dame was a trivial event." 

The gambler ceased speaking. Charon addressed 
The broker, whose spirits were plainly depressed : 
"To risk one's life, rashly, for woman's sweet sake, 
Is a terrible blunder, — too much is at stake ; 
If he loses his life, he also doth lose her; 
Another will probably win and abuse her; 
The lady won't follow her hero, alack! 
And the poor, foolish fellow can not go back." 

Then muttered the miserable homicide: 
"So I have concluded since I died." 

24 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 



"Cheer up!" cried the pilot. *'Ere long you will find 
A lovelier dame than the one left behind. 
There are not such beauties on earth as in Hades; 
Ah, there you will find some superb spirit ladies!" 

The once gallant broker, who passively stared 
At a glare in the distance, sharply declared: 
"Not a fig-leaf do I care 

About the spirit ladies there, 

Or in creation anywhere." 

"What, ho! already a woman hater 

Because of your curse? — She'll, join you later." 

"I hope not, old pilot; I hope she'll be saved. 
'Twas largely my fault that we misbehaved. 
I hate not the dangerous sex, entire; 
But I care not to play, hereafter, with fire. 
But say, — must we sinners eternally stay 
In the region, infernal? Tell me, pray. 
Or will we grow pinions, and fly away?" 



"A spirit, when purified, need not remain 

In Satan's well governed and marv'lous domain: 

But it largely depends on the spirit ladies, 

How long the male spirits remain in Hades ; 

You may find it hard to behave as you should. 

And you can not depart until you are good; 

And some are so charming you'll not care to leave 'em. 

Especially if your departing would grieve 'em." 

"My amorous old pilot! cease to harp 
On the dear spirit ladies," came the sharp 
Retort of the broker. 

Charon swore, 
And declared he'd enlighten an ingrate no more. 

25 



AT LUCIFER'S PORTALS 



The gambler, alas ! was deploring again ; 
And he mournfully muttered his sad refrain, 

''A sporty old stager, 
With nothing to wager, 
Not even a soul, as the devil owns that!'' 
And into the river of hell he spat. 

Silence awhile, — then disconsolately: 

"The Devil and Death have pauperized me; 

But heavenly treasures the monk doth possess; 

So, it seems, he played shrewdly and scored success.' 

He glanced at the monk, and, amazed, he saw 

Great glory, revealed; and he shuddered with awe; 

He stared at the saintly visage, upturned ; 

Saw the light of the holy zeal that burned 

In the eyes of the monk, — in prayer, upraised. 

And the gambler muttered, as still he gazed: 

"If the opportunity, glorious, be given 

In Hades, to win precious treasures in heaven, 

Methinks 'twill be better to start afresh, 

And play a new game I ne'er played in the flesh." 



The sinister craft, through the waters, sped 
Toward the ominous glare, toward the region of dread. 
And, silent the woebegone souls of the dead. 



The indistinct craft, when last it was seen, 
Was near the dread shore, and the monk, serene, 
Was holding a luminous crucifix. 
Which blazed in the mist on the River Styx ; 
And lo! 'round his head was a halo of glory. 
As he prayed for the wretches in purgatory. 



26 



GREETINGS 

Oh, believe me, this wish is a wish sincere : 
That during the year 

Pleasure, success and prosperity, 

Be apportioned thee 
In such a measure that thou wilt climb 

Most rapidly 
To the heights, sublime. 
Oh, may you ever improve with time! 



27 



SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 



There is a land where bird spreads pinion 

O'er an ever green dominion ; 
Where the tuneful tongue of bird is never mute. 

Oh, it is an El Dorado, 

Free from blizzard and tornado, 
Land of mineral and fruit! 

'Tis beside the old Pacific, 

Where bloom orange groves prolific; 
'Tis the Southland, by the sunset sea carest, — 
The fruitful Eden of the Golden West. 

Empire by the Western waters, 

Dear to all her sons and daughters. 
Is a land where it is always blossom time; 

Everlasting Summer smiles 

On the land and sea and isles; 
'Tis a celebrated clime. 

Where loom azure peaks, snow-crested ; — 

Land with untold grandeur vested. 
Where the verdant earth and sea and sky combine 
To make the homeland very near divine. 

'Tis a land of grain and clover; 

'Tis a cotton land, moreover; 
'Tis sheltered by its mountains, robed in pines ; — 

Famous for its clime, propitious ; 

Pears and citrus fruits, delicious ; 
Figs and olives, nuts and wines. 

There are yet untilled, rich regions 

Where Dame Fortune becks to legions: — 
Greater wealth, by far, the Golden West can yield 
Enriched will be new hosts that take the field. 

28 



SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 

Our progressive population, 
Helping to enrich the nation, 

Will, more celebrated, make the peerless land. 
All our splendid cities flourish, 
And the world we help to nourish, — 

Rich resources at command. 

Wealth beladen ships are steaming 
From our harbors, calm and gleaming; 

And our land shall prosper now as ne'er before. 

With Panama's new gateway at our door. 



HERE'S TO THE PRINCE OF GOOD 
FELLOWS 



Here's to the Prince of Good Fellows, 
The God of a myriad of hearts; 

Bestower of countless blessings, 
Yet master of all black arts. 

Best friend to the king of finance. 

Or battered knight of ''shank's mare"; 
To the married man or the lover, — 

Benefactor beyond compare! 

Oh, here's to the Prince of Good Fellows, 

Prince of the lustrous wings; 
Loved and extolled by all classes ; — 

Shown deference by Earth's kings! 

Here's to the Prince of Good Fellows, 

Under whose wings, outspread, 
Earth's mightiest nations seek refuge. 

While war piles to heaven the dead! 

Here's to the Savior of Millions, 

To whom starving multitudes flee; 

While the drunk beggar. Mars, whose deeds 
smell to the stars, 
Bends his supplicating knee! 

Here's a toast to that Prince of Good Fellows, 
Hailed by the world as supreme — 

The Almighty American Dollar, 

With the Wings and the Eagle's Scream! 



30 



WHY TREMBLES THE EARTH UNDER MARTIAL 
TREAD? 

Why trembles the earth under martial tread, 

And why are the marts of the world dyed red, 

And the weird nights illumined with bonfires of dead? 

The mailed fist descending — the fist world-old; 

The multitudes writhing in anguish, untold; 

The munition-kings reaping their harvest of gold! 

Industry's wheels grinding night and day 

To keep ever the Dogs of War in the fray, 

And the Wolf from the Nation's hearth-stone, away! 

The warrior's strong arm and the scientist's brain 

In unison working with might and main 

To swell the vast ranks of the crippled and slain! 

The best manhood of nations, fast or slow. 
Sinking from sight in the crimson tide's flow; 
Chivalry's bones to be picked by the crow! 

Multitudinous death bursting everywhere, — 
From under the waves, on earth, in air, 
Till the vitals of nations are laid bare! 

Proud Civilization's masque torn amain. 
The tusks of the tiger showing plain, 
And still on the brow the Brand of Cain! 

Why trembles the earth under martial tread. 

And why are the marts of the world dyed red, 

And the weird nights illumined with bonfires of dead? 

To the hell of the earth-world, littered with slain, 
There comes from the Fiend's pleasant hell, the refrain: 
'"Tis the curse of the world-old passion for gain. 
The magic, the tragic passion for gain!" 



31 



THE MILLIONAIRE'S LAST SEARCH 
FOR GOLD 

On the desert, dark and dismal 
As are Stygian depths, abysmal, 

One who had toss'd 
Gold right and left, sported and swaggered, 
Mad with thirst, in darkness staggered. 

All hope was lost! 

Creed had caused him to brave peril ; 
Enter carcass-strewn, hot, sterile 

Death Valley, dread: 
With guide and beasts he had come hither; 
Thirst had caused their veins to wither; 

They now were dead. 

Sleep o'ercame him. Parched, delirious, 
Lay the money-king, imperious ; — 

Drank hogsheads dry; 
Dreamed of brooklets, drank insanely, — 
With unslackened thirst drank vainly 

And marveled why! 

Nearly naked, parched, delirious, 
Lay the money-king, imperious, 

'Neath desert sky; 
Dark the night, the sands were flying; 
And the millionaire was dying. 

And none stood by. 

AVhen he, in luxury, was sporting, 
And with princely ones consorting, 

'Twas his intent. 
That when he died, no burial, lowly. 
But great pomp and service, holy. 

Should grace the last event. 

32 



THE MILLIONAIRE'S LAST SEARCH FOR GOLD 

To be embalmed, he had desired; 
Ah, most handsomely attired. 

His precious clay 
In costly casket should be cased, 
And in sarcophagus, then placed, 

Would mock Decay. 

Night and desert; heaven covered 
With a shroud wherein Storm hovered! 

The Croesus, great. 
Strove hard to 'rise, — Wind shrieked derision; 
Stinging sands impaired his vision; 

He lay prostrate. 

Storm now is rampant; crashing thunder, 
It seems will split the earth asunder; 

Each vivid flare 
Above that Hades, stretching vastly. 
Lights an object, grim and ghastly, 

With vacant stare. 

In the night — the panther crying — 
On the desert he was lying. 

How peaceful there! 
Wine and Revelry had cloyed him, — 
Thirst and Desert, — they destroyed him, 

The millionaire. 

No sarcophagus protected; 
And rapacious birds respected 

Not his rank; 
Nor did the beast that, expeditely, 
Made those poor remains less sightly, — 

A panther, lank. 

Snarling things with empty paunches. 
Sit, tonight, on their lean haunches. 

Among his bones; 
Yelp and howl, as though lamenting 

33 



THE MILLIONAIRE'S LAST SEARCH FOR GOLD 



That the remnants they are scenting 
Are bare as stones. 

That once proud head lies weather-beaten ; 
Bone alone has not been eaten ; 

Teeth shine dull: 
Jealous night wind moans and hisses, 
As the sickly moonlight kisses 

That grinning skull. 



34 



WAGES OF SIN 

She's very drunk — Madam Sinclaire, 
So richly gowned, and oh, so fair, — 
Drunk in the cafe's din and glare. 

She fixes a pathetic stare 

On one with slightly ruffled hair, — 

Her escort, well-groomed, debonaire. 

He sees that angel face aflush 

With paint from Demon Highball's brush. 

No more her eyes hold mystic spell — 

Twin oysters would look just as well. 

She's very drunk — the blurred lights swim ; 

He sees the truth — it sobers him. 

To lose her head — a stupid thing! 

She might become embarrassing. 

Not yet a hardened devotee 

Of Bacchanalian Life is she. 

But just a woman who may be; — 

A widow with men at her heels, 

But still a woman with ideals ; 

One who has many trials withstood, 

Has great capacity for good. 

And knows the cares of motherhood. 

She fights to seem half sober, still; 
The highballs struggle Vv-ith her will. 
Her escort over stein and foam 
Suggests a "taxicab" and "home." 

They rise to leave the paradise 
Of revelry and tinseled vice. 

Oh, oft man clutches — just too late! 
She staggers and collides with — Fate: 
Reels 'gainst a couple on their way 
To chairs in Highlife's thronged cafe, — 
A pretty girl with painted cheeks 



35 



WAGES OF SIN 



And breath that, with wine's odor, reeks ; 
A young man yet unweaned from school. 
Not bad, but sometimes — just a fool. 

The wretched woman stumbles, slips — 
Filled glasses pause midway to lips — 

Some thought she'd fainted — just a few; 

The woman's wretched escort knew! 

Men strained their necks, and women, too. 

A myriad eyes were turned that way 

To gaze at Folly's prostrate prey. 

A grandoise dame, with lips, gin-wet, 

Stared icily through her lorgnette; 

Her spouse, half man, half "missing link," 

Grinned foolishly and took a drink. 

For moments, few — which teemed with hell, 

Shamed womanhood lay where she fell; 

Then, rescued by the hands of men, 

The fallen idol stood, again; 

But oh, so altered in the eyes 

Of those who'd helped her to arise, — 

An escort who urged quick escape, 

A young man friendly with the Grape! 

Some wondered why, amazed, she stared 
(A voice, the while, in ragtime blared) 
Stared into eyes with wine, aflame; 
Stared at a face which burned with shame! 
Inaudibly, she gasped a name ; 
Then softly moaned to one held dear: 
"You — and that — painted — girl — in here!" 

On, with the care-free midnight revel, — 

Who cares or thinks about the devil! 

On, with the music, mirth and laughter, — 

Who cares about the morning after! 

On with the Bacchanalian fun. 

Mute, horrified, stand — Mother, Son! 

36 



LIKE UNTO THE VAMPIRE 

I saw a woman of spotless name 

Bedecked in gaudy attire; 
And heard her vow she would play the game 

As plays the artful vampire. 

Oh, much she knew of the vampire's charms; 

The vampire's artful style; 
The maddening lure of her outstretched arms; 

The vampire's serpent guile. 

Oh, much she had learned of the vampire's spell — 

(Which lures to hell's abyss 
As many a man has known so well 

As he clung to the vampire's kiss.) 

And she who had ever prayed to God 

In an humble and righteous way, 
And never the primrose path had trod, 

Prepared to seek her prey. 

But to lure men's willing souls to hell, — 

Her purpose was none such: 
'Twas to lure back the spouse whom she loved too well,- 

To win him from vampire's clutch! 



37 



THE PEDIGREED LADY 



There lived a plain man, and his honest heart beat 
For a pedigreed lady whose fancies were fleet ; 
And he laid his heart at his lady's feet 
She toyed with the heart — 'twas a pastime, sweet ; 
Then cast it away for Woe's hell-hounds to eat. 

Now the selfsame lady lost her head 

O'er a handsome rogue whose soul was dead, 

(A woman had killed it, — he'd ceased to care 

For the beautiful devil, so clever, so fair. 

The havoc she'd wrought had blanched his hair) 

And she who had toyed with the plain man's heart, 

Found deep in her own a poisoned dart ; 

And the pedigreed lady stooped as he willed, — 

The handsome love-pirate whose soul had been killed. 

He found her — a lady enjoying life's sweets ; 

He left her — a woman of the streets. 

The virtuous shunned her, the world called her "Bad!": 

And, oh, how she longed for that heart she once had, 

That honest heart she had cast away 

When she laughed men to scorn, ere she fell man's prey. 

And the woman of scarlet breathed a prayer: 

"O, mericiful God, let him know and care!"; 

For the woman of sin had learned the worth 

Of an honest heart on this sham-damned earth. 

But the heart of the plain man nevermore beats 

For the pedigreed lady whom any man greets. 



38 



THE STAR-ADORNED ENSIGN, OLD GLORY 

The star-adorned ensign, Old Glory by name, 

With its stripes of bright silver and stripes of red flame- 

Oh, may it triumphantly wave evermore 

As Liberty's emblem — unsullied, wave o'er 

A nation, peace-loving, yet mighty in war! 

Oh, may Right be upheld, all Oppression be quelled, 

And our mighty Republic be e'er unexcelled! 

Dauntless millions, inspired with glorious zeal, 

Would die in behalf of our country's weal : 

What invaders could ever withstand our steel! 

The world must respect the American flag; 

Through the dust, in dishonor, may it never drag. 

The loyal and brave resolutely demand 

That their flag be respected in every land; 

And the loyal and brave will maintain their stand. 

Let this edict be hurled to all parts of the world : 

That, in all foreign lands where our flag is unfurled, 

An invincible nation, just, proud and free, 

With army and navy, if it must be, 

Will protect all her children from Tyranny! 



39 



TIME (Sonnet) 

Time bows the stalwart, saps the Hmbs' good strength, 

And spins within thought's dome, the cobwebs, dire ; 
Beauty, despoiled, doth haggish grow at length: 

The human temple, ruined by Time's ire! 
If altars crumble, doth religion, too? 

The human temple Time doth desecrate, 
The spirit, though, will live all aeons through ; 

True character, e'er mock this mocker, great. 
Time brings experience, needed discipline ; 

And e'en though slight, thy gain in power to face 
Responsibility — to turn from sin. 

Thy soul hath been improved by Time's good grace! 
Regret not thou the seasons as they roll ; 
Time rends the garment, but he shapes the soul. 



40 



THE DOG AND THE GOD 

In ev'ry man, so we have heard, 

A sleeping dog abides ; 
In ev'ry man, be it averred, 

There is a sleeping God, besides. 
Alas! the warning, vicious bark 

Not always doth awake 
The sleeping God ; he doth not mark 

The soul hath cause to quake ; 
Else he would silence, by his might, 

The awakened brute ere it could bite. 



41 



ETERNAL PUNISHMENT 

The Allwise One, who planned creation, knew 

His Httle world, and surely was aware 
How man was constituted; so 'tis true 
That He foresaw what evil would ensue. 

On some, 'tis said, eternal wrath will burst. 

The Maker, the Omniscient One, who knew 
That unschooled souls would err, knew from the first 
If any being would be so accurst. 

When hydra-headed evil doth enmesh 

In its drag-net a soul, as yet, unfit. 
Will He, who did create world, soul and flesh, 
Deny it privilege to start afresh? 

He makes a soul, pre-destined to be lost: 
It sins a little moment in this world 
And then through countless aeons pays the cost — 
Down, down to dire damnation, justly toss'd! 

Behold the stars! God doeth his work well; 

Yet thinkest thou He did create a soul 
But to destroy it, or afflict with hell 
Eternally, because, unfit, it fell? 

Destructive wrath! Dost hear the threat, aghast? 

Oh, He that did create us will perfect; 
Not so, if dire damnation, us, will blast; 
Nay, ev'ry one shakes hands with God, at last. 

World, flesh and devil ultimately school 

Aspiring man, still slave of whim and sense; 
Awhile he'll flounder, unregenerate fool. 
But finally in him the God will rule. 



42 



DOGMAS AND CREEDS 

It's not what your ready lips profess, 

It's your faith and your life that count: 

Your heart may cry "No" while your lips say ''Yes"; 

You may curse in your soul while your lying lips bless. 
By your faith and your life you mount! 

It's by what you have done and omitted to do 
You'll be judged at the Bar when life is through. 
Dogmas and creeds are like unto reeds — 
But acts, unselfish, and worthy deeds 
Weigh heavy in God's true scales ; 
A creed in the balance but little avails. 



43 



FIGHT ON! 

Though your pleasures are past ; though your lot is now 

loathed ; 
Though your spirit, in old battered armor, is clothed ; 
Though life is a torture, prolonged by each breath, — 
Don't throw down your cross, and seek refuge in death! 
You have sinned, — who has not? — but, at times, you have 

warred 
With heroic zeal, and, some triumphs, have scored. 
Your great mission in life is to gain moral strength ; — 
So do not ignobly surrender at length! 
Perhaps, all the dark ways of sin you have trod. 
And shamelessly wandered far, far from your God, — 
Every transgression is paid for in pain — 
Yet, having progressed, you have not lived in vain. 
You are wiser, more disciplined than e'er before : 
Would you give up the struggle, — seek Acheron's shore? 
Though all worldly things that you value, be lost, 
Yet, having progressed, you should not count the cost; 
So take up your cross, and your journey, renew ; 
Though hell rage within, yet to Duty be true! 
Oh, grind your good sword on Experience's stone, 
And draw a keen edge on the Woes you have known, 
And cut a straight pathway through Life's tangled wood. 
Fight on to the goal, — to superior manhood! 



44 



WHAT GOOD THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES? 

What good the odor of the rose, if none, to smell, are 
near it? 

What good the music of the spheres, if there are none to 
hear it? 

And what's the worth of Cosmos, — of Infinitude's display 

Of myriad suns and planets — clusters, dippers. Milky 
Way, 

Unnumbered constellations — ah, tell me, what's their worth 

Unless the Whole be peopled, — not just our midget- 
earth ? 

Wherefore the starry grandeur underneath which, cooped, 
we crawl. 

Unless there's Life to sense, enjoy and profit by it all? 

Unless the Whole be peopled, who's to profit by the 
Whole?— 

And who enjoy yon billion stars, as countless aeons roll? 

Are yon vast suns but scenery to be enjoyed, afar, 

By earth-bound beings only, on one microscopic star? 

What purpose serve the singing spheres — the universe, 
sidereal, — 

Unless to serve triumphant Mind as suitable material ? 

For aught man knows, there are extant, on countless dis- 
tant spheres, 

Great races far beyond the earth's in wisdom and in years. 

For aught man knows, why, yonder suns are habitats, 
sublime, 

For high Intelligences, foreign to a planet's clime. 

For aught man knows, there beings are, possessed of life, 
eternal. 

And free to roam from star to star and visit realms, 
supernal. 



45 



FROM FISH TO MAN, FROM CLOD TO GOD 

From fish to man, — from protoplasmic slime 

To man's estate, — oh, 'tis a long hard climb ; 

For Aeons mark but mile-stones in the rise 

From ocean's floor to aeroplane-filled skies! 

From first-born monad in the mother-sea 

Life traveled long ere reaching you and me. 

And after all the untold ages spent, 

To what avail hath Life made its ascent 

Through various forms, from monad to proud man, 

And seemingly according to a plan ? — 

To end ignobly in six feet of earth 

Which man inherits so soon after birth ? — 

Hath Life, for this, evolved from ocean's cave? — 

Doth Evolution's path end at man's grave? 

In Frail Mortality, can it be true 

The Law of Progress meets its Waterloo? 

Is Dust the Alpha and Omega, too? 

If man's endowed with an immortal soul 
And Godhood is the meet and final goal. 
Then, all is well that is preparatory 
To ultimate perfection, joy and glory; 
Then, purposeful, man's earthly trials and strife; 
Then, death is but an incident of life, 
And blasted not is all that went before: — 
The Aeons' fruits preserved forevermore! 

From clod to God, — from protoplasmic slime 
To Fields Elysian, — 'tis a long, long climb; 
For Aeons mark but mile-stones in the rise 
From ocean's bottom to celestial skies: 
But oh, the richer thus, man's heritage, — 
The magic fruits of ev'ry timeless age! 



46 



MY WONDERFUL SELF I AM PROUD TO BE 

This was the song of a little green frog 
As, complacent, it sat on a water-soaked log: 
"My wonderful self I rather would be 
Than anything that I ever did see, 
For where is the thing that can out-hop me!" 

And this was the song of a poor, ugly toad. 

As it croaked in a puddle — most wretched abode! — 

"Croak, ho ! My environment is ideal ; 

The insects are plenty for many a meal." 

And this was the boast in a lion's roar 

As there dripped from the mighty beast's maw, human 

gore : 
"I'm king of all beasts; crush me if you can! 
I'm swifter than elephant, stronger than man ; 
My powerful self I am proud to be. 
For where is the thing that can vanquish me!" 

And this was the boast in an eagle's scream. 

As the lordly bird rose to the clouds agleam: 

"Some swim and some crawl, some walk and some run; 

But I'm king of the air, I soar with the sun! 

My wonderful self I am proud to be. 

For where is the thing that can out-fly me!" 

The legs of the frog graced a millionaire's meal ; 

The toad, by mischance, was crushed under his heel ; 

At the crook of his finger the jungle-king fell ; 

His aeroplane hummed the bruised eagle's death-knell. 

And the conqueror laughed a laugh of glee 

When he struck the old bird of liberty: 

"Ha, where is the fowl that can out-fly me!" 

Through opaline skies, above billows of mist, . 
As though with effulgent Old Sol to keep tryst. 
Swift, swiftly the huge bird of steel swept along 

47 



MY WONDERFUL SELF I AM PROUD TO BE 



And hummed to its master a jubilant song: 

"'On land or in sky supreme man is at home, 

And under the waters of earth may roam. 

With lightning-swift cars at his beck and call, 

With flying machines 

And submarines, 

The earth, for his pleasure, will soon be too small." 

And the air-pilot smiled as he thought of his gold — 

Yea, truly the key to delights, manifold! 

(Ah, many a man while his lot seems ideal 

Is destroyed, by mischance, as the toad by man's heel!) 

And the millionaire thrilled to his giant bird's song, 
As they soared o'er a city, ere something went wrong 
And the finis was written in puddles of red 
On a junk-littered pavement where lay the dead. 



48 



WHO IS WHO? 

Who is who in this world of shams, 

Where there's so much of gaudy ghtter; 

Where two-legged wolves parade as lambs, 
And human vultures twitter? — 

Where the glister of gold imparts lustre to name; 

Where Favoritism oft rules ; 
Where the rustle of silk may drown Guilt's hiss of shame, 

And Merit's at discount — 'mongst fools. 

Are the seats of the mighty occupied 

By only the race's best? — 
Ha, many as good, in dank ditches have died. 

And Fortune's skirt-hem ne'er carest! 

Wealth e'en exalts Folly now and again 
So applause resounds over the earth! — 

Say, who is who in the world of men 
Where Merit should measure Worth? 

Yea, who is who in the world of shams, 

Of tinsel and veneer? — 
Ha, War, Bloody War, howsoever it damns, 

Makes the Naked Truth stand clear! 



49 



IN THE YEARS AFTER WE HAVE PARTED 

In the far future years, my darling, long after this dream 
is o'er; 

In the years after we have parted, perhaps to be com- 
rades no more; 

Will you fondly remember the lover you smiled on in 
days of yore? 

In the far distant future, my darling, when others do 

lavish their praise ; 
In the years after we have parted, and gone on our 

separate ways; 
Will you sometimes think of the lover on whom you now 

tearfully gaze? 

On the fateful night when another makes bold 
To sigh, vow and lie, and thy hand to hold ; 
When he swears by the stars and the inconstant moon 
That he doth adore, can't be wedded too soon ; 
When he tells of affection, he feigns or he feels, 
And o'er thee, the old, old madness steals; 
And his arm 'round thy slender waist gently slips, 
And his kisses melt fervently on thy lips ; — 
Alas, my beloved! 

For thy present devoted lover, my darling, my life, wilt 

thou sigh? 
Will a tear of dear recollection then form in thy dark, 

lustrous eye? 
Oh, I fear that thou wilt not remember my kisses on 

nights gone by! 

Through the years of long, long separation, oh, can you 

love on just the same ? 
New loves will console and delight you, for others will 

kindle the flame ; 
This love, it may wither to ashes, and I, become only 

a name! 



50 



AS GOLDEN YEARS GO BY 

Once, dear, we loved each other, 
But we, apart, were torn; 

And have we now forgotten 
That romance of Hfe's mom? 

Oh, hearken to that music! 

As heartward sinks that song, 
Once more upon our spirits. 

Old memories do throng. 

Years, had the passion slumbered; 

In death-like trance 'twas wrapped 
An old cord now is chiming, — 

A cord we thought had snapped. 

Once more I press you closely; 

You smile and whisper low ; 
Love burns again in your dark eyes 

As it burned long ago. 

With consecrating nectar. 
Your lips do mine baptize; 

And train mine in a holy use ; 
While eyes speak love to eyes. 

I sought to learn of heaven 
In saints' and sages' lore; 

But oh, in one sweet moment. 
Your dear love taught me more. 

"Our tender love, no power 
Can e'er destroy!" we vowed; 

But, oh, we had not reckoned 
With time's eclipsing cloud! 

But still we love each other; 

How happy, you and I ! 
And time shall bind us closer 

As golden years go by! 



51 



LINES TO U— 

Fair maiden! Thy rare beauty would inspire 
The worthy poet's pen, the minstrel's lyre ; 
And doubly so if thou, to smile, wouldst deign; — 
Unworthy thee is this, my humble strain. 

Eyes, lips and smile! Those eyes alone can light 

The Muse's torch, make poesy burn bright. 

Those lovely lips! Alas, I can but sigh! 

Say, — Cupid stained them with his choicest dye, 

And, tracing out their beauteous contour, 

He cried: "They're suited to sweet uses, sure!" 

Those scarlet lips were made to breathe love's strain, 

And kisses, on these thirsting lips, to rain. 

Is't wrong to call the lily, sweet? Is't praise? 

Think not that mine are idle words to scorn. 
How base the lark that doth, no carol, raise 

To rising sun, which is the smile of morn: 
And more unworthy, I, if silent while. 
Mine eyes delightedly behold thy smile. 

Were I a bard whose verse would long survive 
Thy loveliness, and prove to be the rage, 

To celebrate thy virtues, I would strive: — 
But Time would soon obliterate the page. 

To picture all thy charms, I shall not try. 
Since, with the camera, verse can never vie. 



52 



SONNETS TO B 

Rare maiden! thou musician, masterly, 

So lovely and so young, — pray deign to hear! 
A rare, supernal power dwells in thee, 

Inspiring thy art till we revere. 
No classic harp, nor lyre more classic still, 

Doth serve thy inspiration, and 'tis well ; — 
The good piano, touched by thy great skill. 

Doth o'er us cast a more entrancing spell. 
Oh, when thy mind and lovely hands impart 

The transporting emotions, manifold, 
Which those symbols record, we know thou art 

A master, who interprets masters, old. 
But thou, by virtuosos lauded high. 
Need not my modest tribute, all too dry. 

Emotion's realm, sweet music doth o'er sway : 

It calms the staring madman in his rage; 
The murd'rous hand of Saul, the harp did stay; 

And music makes some caper on Life's stage ; 
While by its martial tones, straw nerves are brassed ; 

Sad strains make haughty eyes, their tears to spill; 
When naught lures us to live, and hope is passed, 

Why, music thrills, when naught we deemed could thrill. 
Now, some must play what geniuses have penned, — 

Interpret and impart their rapturous madness ; 
How glorious, then, the art that serves this end ; 

And such as thou canst give the world much gladness. 
So, sweet musician, may thy sphere expand 
Till thou art celebrated o'er all the land! 

In thee, what charm and radiance combine! 

Thy loveliness doth plead its own sweet cause; 
Admiring eyes pay homage; 'tis a shrine 

Where incense will be burned, — but I must pause. 
Lest thy dear modesty be sore oppressed : — 

With comely raiment is thy soul endowed ; 
Thy smile is sunshine to the woe-chilled breast ; 

53 



SONNETS TO B- 



A moonbeam, prisoned in a silver cloud, 
Thy spirit is. But harken, I implore, 

And heed me well : ne'er let thy industry, 
'Gainst health and loveliness, wage cruel war! 

With e'er increasing beauties, God bless thee! 
Preserve and guard thy charms ; they please no less 
Than doth the wondrous talent you possess. 

Sweet lilies, on rank cactus, do not grow; 

And star-beams have a high celestial source; 
And from thy sweetness, and thy life, we know 

Thy character hath nobleness and force. 
What moral beauties, all, adorn thy mind; 

What noble passions, in thy bosom, swell ; — 
Thou, being strange, I have not all divined, — 

And yet the crystal tone denotes the bell. 
When some entrancing strain doth greet the ear; 

Or when the nightingale sings us a score, 
Th' entire melody, we long to hear ; 

And we are grieved if we can hear no more: 
Thou art the melody, and having heard 
Some sundry strains, by all I v/ould be stirred. 



54 



LINES TO MADAME GRISELDA 

Madame Griselda, songstress, great! 

The laurels do entwine thine honored name ; 
Loud plaudits, thou hast heard reverberate 

In many lands, and royalty acclaim. 
Thy glorious gift, by God was given ; 
No music instrument 'neath heaven 

Hath such sweet sorcery; 
Thine, was not shaped by human hand ; 
But God and thou have made it grand : 

Both praised be. 

With noble mien, and graceful ease. 

The "woman maestro" doth appear, and lo! 
Her outward charms do greatly please. 

The strains begin — the lights but dimly glow ; 
Her 'witching cadence greets the ear; 
Behold! the audience, rapt, doth hear, 

Delighted by each note : 
To move the soul, what power hath song! 
Vast numbers — see! weak hearts and strong, 

Swayed by one sweet throat. 

Thee, songstress! I will not compare 
With heavenly lark that sings in air, 

Or clings to leafy stem ; 
Not with the peerless nightingale. 
That sings, divine, its lovely tale, — 

'Twould, too much, honor them : 
With such rapt pleasure, ne'er we hark 
To nightingale or heavenly lark; 
To make as pensive or as gay. 
Bird ne'er was born, that had a way. 

Song Sorceress! what power thou hast. 

Old memories, in us, to raise! 
Once more they surge, as we behold the past; 

Once more emotion's dying embers blaze! 

55 



LINES TO MADAME GRISELDA 



Perchance, some lover's shade doth rise, — 
Behold the lips, the smile, the eyes! 

Their sorcery did one enthrall. 
And promise, give, of endless bliss, 
Till something, somehow, went amiss, 

And ruined all. 

Thy strains make us remember, 

Perhaps, a tender joy 
That, long ago, did perish, — 

A sweet without alloy; 
Perhaps a secret anguish. 
We thought had calloused o'er, 
(Which we would ne'er recall, again) 

Is made to burn once more. 

"Ave Marie," thou didst sing ; 

'Twas not so much the song 

That caused the happy tears to spring, 

As thy voice rose clear and strong; 
That caused the heart, in the throat, to swell, 
A sweet emotion, upward, well ; — 

But thy entrancing voice, 
And thy success, that cast the spell : 

I did rejoice. 

One who hath toiled and struggled hard, 
Whose character, trials have not marred. 

And who hath, victory, won ; 
Who charms and edifies the mind. 
Amuses and uplifts mankind, — 

Hath, nobly, done. 

But ev'ry song hath ending, 

And ev'ry swan must die ; 
And glory, sometime, must belong 

To days that have gone by. 
The wreath of fame may wither. 

The star of glory, set; 

56 



LINES TO MADAME GRISELDA 



But there is one fresh garland, 

Eternal dews will wet: 
And thou hast wreathed this garland ; 

Thy soul it doth adorn, — 
It is thy noble womanhood, 

'Twill bloom till Judgment Morn. 



57 



SENTIMENT 
HUMOR 
TRUTH 
AND 

NONSENSE 



THE LAMENT OF A BENEDICT 

Love's a flower on a bramble; 

Getting married is a gamble ; 

Matrimony is joy's essence — if you like an uphill scramble. 

Whether you win her or you buy her, 
Matrimony is a ''flier;" 

It's the means of changing many a man into a first-class 
liar. 

It's giving up a score 

Just for one whom you adore; 

It's testing your digestion, 

As, beyond all doubt and question. 

You have never, never, never, never tested it before. 

It's the end of losing sleep, 
Baffled by the mystery, deep. 

Of how to win your idol, (who was wild to take the 
leap!) 

It's the end of telling lies 
About your idol's eyes ; 

It's the end of kissing the Blarney stone; its throwing 
off disguise. 

It's disdaining to refuse 
Wife, the gold-cure for her "blues ;" 

It's the end of kneeling at her feet except — to lace her 
shoes. 

It's drinking ginger ale 

When you want a stiff cocktail; 

It's longing for the freedom that a man enjoys in jail. 

It's "Farewell" to flying corks ; 

It's cleaning knives, spoons, forks ; 

It's having dreadful visions of a multitude of storks! 



61 



WATERTANK STATION. 

Have you ever been held captive in a God-saken land, 
By Misfortune, Fate or Business, till you scarcely could 

withstand 
Nature's urge to some excitement, maybe, pleasures that 

are banned? 

Ever been a discontented, half-demented prisoner 
In a little town called Boreville, where but Gossip is astir. 
And where nothing of great moment ever did or will 
occur ? — 

Where the natives' chief diversion is to see the trains pass 

through ; 
Where the only pretty women who could draw a sigh 

from you, 
All, are in the double harness and, of course, therefore 

taboo ? — - 

Where life ever in the same old channels evenly does flow ; 
Where the winds of heaven seldom in a new direction 

blow; 
Where you can't go to the devil, as you have no chance 

to go? 

Lived in Boreville ten years? — Well, then, when with 

Death you've kept your date, 
And you stand in fear and trembling, knocking at the 

golden gate, — 
Just recall you lived in Boreville and can bear 'most any 

fate! 

And when venerable Peter asks you why you should 

pass in. 
Mention those ten years in Boreville, and though dark 

your trail with sin. 
When the ghastly truth dawns on him he will surely 

sigh, "You win!" 



62 



DON'T HEED THE LURE OF LITTLE THINGS 

When running down a deer, 

If small game doth appear, 

Don't leave the big buck's trail 

To chase a cottontail, 

Else, to bring home the venison, you probably will fail. 

Observe this rule in life 
In searching for a wife ; 
In business do the same. 
Or in pursuit of Fame: — 

Don't heed the lure of little things when tracking down 
"big game." 



63 



IF YOU'RE FIGHTING LIKE A TROJAN 

If you're fighting like a Trojan with your back against 

the wall ; 
And the odds are all against you, and it seems that you 

must fall ; 
And your weather ear is cocked to hear the dreaded 

Final Call ;— 
If no other way is left you, why, you possibly can "stall," 
And escape at least with some skin, if you can't escape 

with all. 

If Fate has you in the "sweat box," and it seems you're 

sweating blood ; 
And you think how sweet to perish in a fire or a flood, 
Or among man-eating crocodiles in Amazonian mud; — 
Just sweat and keep on sweating, just suffer, watch and 

wait; 
There is no chance for "stalling," for you can't fool Fate. 



64 



TOASTS OF A CYNIC 

Oh, here's to Love, the nightingale ; — 
Or, rather, I should say, a whale 
That swallows, thus, the dove of peace, nor e'en casts up 
the tail! 

;)« :}j H: * * * 

Oh, here's to Love! and, if, by Jove! 

You would call love a bird. 
Don't call it "lark," don't call it "dove," 

As that is quite absurd: 
No bird except the ostrich 

Would continue in fine fettle 
Upon a daily bill of fare 

Composed of "precious metal." 

>}C Jjl ^ 5j» iji 3fi 

Oh, here's to Fame! — a song bird, sweet, 
That sings divinely at one's feet 
When one's a peaceful skeleton and can't enjoy the treat. 

'K 'n 'i^ *»* ^ '1* 

Here's godspeed to the husband-hunter, 

Who's all out of luck; 
Oh, may she find a golden goose 

Whose feathers she can pluck; 
And when she's plucked the feathers 

May her nest be so well lined, 
That she won't have to search again. 

Another goose, to find. 

Here's to the beautiful lady! — 

Ravishing work of art ; 
Supreme masterpiece of the tailor; 

Pride of the hairdresser's heart ; 
The skilled dentist's crowning glory; 

The painter's last letter in fame; — 
Oh, flourish the arts that have made her 

Putting crude nature to shame! 



65 



IN QUEST OF A WIFE. 

Long, had our worthy Don Quixote 

Lived a lonesome life 
In land of sage-brush and coyote, — 

Lived without a wife. 

"My kingdom for a horse!" once roared 
King Richard, brandishing his sword: 
Our hero waved his purse and cried, 
"My many acres for a bride." 

He'd get a wife by "hook or crook," — 
The lonesome wretch was frantic; 

He'd get a wife who'd milk and cook, 
And make life romantic. 



Bold and persistent was our hero ; 

Several declared. 
His morals were like those of Nero, 

But they slightly erred. 

He would hasten to the city, 

Where his record was unknown; 

And, being artful, shrewd and witty. 
He would make some girl his own. 

When the bold blade reached the city, 
His hopes were running high; 
That night, in bed, he sang a ditty. 
Which was all a lie : — 



"I left behind me many girls 
Who always liked to kiss me; 

They are worth their weight in pearls, 
And I am sure they miss me." 

66 



IN QUEST OF A WIFE 



In dance halls he began his quest, 

Soon met a charming lady; 
Loved her greatly, though he guessed 

Her past was somewhat shady. 

He recalled romantic days, 

Recalled old escapades, 
Recalled that his bold, artful ways 

Had often charmed young maids. 

Reflecting with exquisite pride 

That he, the artful sinner, 
Usually conquered when he tried, 

He thought that he could win her. 

They dined together, wined together, 
And, at times, 'twas doubtful whether 
She could have been more tightly pressed 
Against her ardent wooer's breast. 

His new love listened to his ravings, 
Took the ring when he proposed ; 

Helped him spend his hard-earned savings, 
And when spent, — the romance closed. 

The persistent one insisted 

That they really were engaged; 

Hugged her, too, though she resisted, 
And the siren was enraged. 

His cheek, the furious beauty smote, 

And savage words did issue 
From her dev'lish pretty throat, 

"I nevermore will kiss you!" 

Then the jilted one demanded 

That she give him back his ring; 

Seized her, and to him, she handed 
Willingly, the little thing. 

67 



IN QUEST OF A WIFE 



The bachelor has left the city, 
Almost empty is his purse ; 

He does not sing a sweet love ditty, 
He can only curse. 

Ten double eagles, had our hero, 
Paid for that engagement ring; 

He's as bloodthirsty as Nero, — 
He got back a bogus thing. 



68 



THE DESERT RAT 

The shades of eve lengthened. The "desert rat," 

ScowHng and growHng, wearily sat 

On the cold, dusty steps of stone, 

In front of a skyscraper, sat there alone. 

"An idiot's caper," he said with a groan, 

"To seek joy in a city where I am unknown. 

I've stood it a week, and I'm ready to go 

Back to the land of coyote and crow. 

Got up before daylight — did it from habit — 

Chased pleasure each day, but have failed to nab it; 

'Tisn't so hard to run down a jack-rabbit. 

I have walked the hard streets till my calves are sore; 

I have downed a few drinks and don't want any more. 

I am sick of the stenches, the noise and turmoil. 

The sights and the lights. Back, back to the soil! 

I am going back to my old stamping ground. 

Where wind-swept sand dunes and yucca abound ; 

Where rattlesnakes, buzzards and wild dogs are found. 

And it's better to be 

In their company 

Than with some of the crooks that you meet and see; — 

Coyotes are snarling, but harmless, things; 

The rattler gives warning before it stings. 

Hats off to coyotes and buzzards and vermin! 

Their methods supply a good text for a sermon : — 

They'll not prey upon you till after you're dead, 

And your hones are then worthless to you, be it said. 

So back to the realm where Dame Nature is queen ; 

Where, at night, all the stars in the skies can be seen ; 

Back to the region where 'desert rats' dwell! 

I call it God's country, some call it — oh, well. 

The desert, I guess, has me under its spell. 

Through the years I have changed to a 'desert rat;' 

And, when home again, I will toss up my hat 

With a yelp of sheer joy as a 'desert rat' should; 

Why, even the carrion, there, will smell good." 



SPEAK THE TRUTH, SHAME THE DEVIL 

Speak the truth, shame the devil, and bravely confess 
That you love a sweet kiss and a thrilling caress. 
Ah, kiss while you may, before age, the abhored. 
Wrinkles your cheek and wrecks beauty, adored, — 
Else you may regret opportunities, missed, 
When you think of the times when you might have been 
kissed. 



70 



TO MY OLD GIRL 

Here's future joy to my old girl, 
Up-to-date, hard-to-hold girl, 

Who heeded the lure of gold; 
The girl with the heart that grew cold; 
Whom another doth now enfold 
In his good strong arms; 
My old girl, 
Up-to-date, hard-to-hold girl. 

With the irresistible charms! 



71 



IT PAYS TO KNOW 

It pays to know just what you know ; 

When not to give advice; 
Which man to trust within your reach ; 

Which man has not his price. 
To know just when to ask yourself 

If it is as is said; 
To know just when to beheve the world 

Or believe yourself instead. 

It pays to look for virtue's pearls 
Before you choose your mate, — 

Although, a wealth of ocean's pearls, 
You might deem richer bait. 

It pays to know that Prince Fat Purse 

Who preys upon the poor. 
Then gives a mite to charity 

In hopes thus to secure 
A jeweled crown in paradise, — 

Lord! — when he tries to enter, 
His hopes will disappear in smoke 

Somewhere near Hades' center. 



72 



THE FALLING OUT 

Ill-fated falling stars, above! 
A luckless lover's falling in love, 

Inevitably is checked, 
When one's dear idol falls in one's esteem 
The shock awakes him from his dream ; 

His golden hopes are wrecked. 

Then comes the lover's falling out 
With Cupid, who begins to pout, 

And straightway takes to wing; — 
But rhymsters never rave about 
This dull, prosaic ''falling-out," 

So I've no more to sing. 



73 



LOVELY BELLE OF SOCIETY 

Ah, yes, lovely belle of society. 

Sweet creature of goodness and piety! 

We know that you love a variety, 

And hanker for suitors, galore; 
And 'tis in the bounds of propriety 

To be blessed with a dozen score: 
But oh, lovely creature of piety! 
Relieve one poor devil's anxiety, 
Make him believe you prefer his society. 
Suppress your great love for variety, 
(All this will insure his sobriety) 

And he will adore you far more. 



74 



THOUGH THE RICH MAN MAY NOT ENTER 
HEAVEN, 

Though the rich man may not enter heaven, 

However so hard he may try, 
With any more ease than a camel can squeeze 

Through some kind of a needle's eye; — 

The biblical statement in question 
Implies not, that, had he been poor. 

He would have to strain less, or meet with success. 
Some paupers would not I am sure. 

Though the rich who seek entrance to heaven, 

May elsewhere be hurried, pellmell. 
Be that as it may, 'tis certain I say, 

That the poor in this life get hell. 

Now, wealth, rightly used, is a blessing. 

Poverty oft is a curse; — 
Don't remain poor because loath to endure 

Damnation, you fear may be worse. 



75 



IT MATTERS NOT 

It matters not what you once could pay ; 

Nor how much you squandered along Life's way;- 

You're the next thing to nothing, if broke today. 

It matters not if the goose once hung high ; 

And your limit in poker was the sky : — 

You can't bank on the past, — no chips will it buy. 

It matters not what you were at one time ; 
Nor how wild your life in your golden prime : — 
It's being "all in" that is the crime. 



76 



DO IT AGAIN 

If you have divided your last, stale crust 
With a comrade you honor and love and trust; 
If you have lived true to friendship's dear pledge, 
Though the sacrifice brought you near the grave's edge 
And you meet him years later and he is rich, — 
He's in the purple and you're in the ditch; 
And he doubly repays you and merits your trust 
By giving a zvhole for that former half crust : — 
Why, then, if you'd be a real man among men, 
Just save the new crust and divide again. 



77 



DUTCHY'S NEWSPAPER VENTURE 
UND LUF AFFAIR 

Some time ago I settled here, 
In dis pig town ver folks are qveer ; 
Und I did vun most foolish caper — 
Ach! I started vun newspaper! 
I published gossip vot vas nice, 
While trinking peer, so cool as ice ; 
Und Gott! I printed her yust tvice. 
Vy did I chuck her, then, und leave ? — 
Der reason, any vun can believe: 
Der vere so many gossips here, 
Ver almost evrytings is qveer — 
Alt vimen gossips vot ve fear — 
Dot newspaper, she had no sale, — 
Der news, pefore I print, vas stale. 

I had in town vun luf affair, 
Vich gave me vun supreme despair. 
Bah! I haf huge revenge to get. 
For gossip vot qveered all tings yet; 
It qveered dot newspaper so qvick, 
It makes me almost drei veeks sick. 

I had vun parrot; — dot qveer bird 

Talked poetrys vich she vunce heard. 

Mein freund, now mit der great Dutch nation, 

Gabe dot bird vun education. 

He wrote poetics — he was shmart, 

Und taught dot bird poetic art; 

Und now I tell some secrets, — see? — 

'Twas Polly bird vich started me. 

I lufed vun girl mit golden hair. 
Some vimen here gabe me despair; — 
Dey said she vas, mit me, proposed; 
Vun man said so, — hees eye vent closed. 
Says I ; "I vill be her protector, 



78 



DUTCHY'S NEWSPAPER VENTURE 



Teach der peoples to respect her. 
It vud gieb her vun great dismay- 
To know just vat die vimen say." 
Her hair vas golden like der carrot ; 
After her, I named dot parrot. 

Mein lonesome freund say: "Loan me Polly, 

Maybe she vill make me jolly." 

I loaned him Polly — Ach, I mean 

Die Polly bird, not Polly qveen. 

Vun veek he brought back Polly bird; 

Py Himmel! Vot vas it I heard! 

Dot parrot vas vun holy terror — 

She vas vun almighty shwarer! 

Dar vas to be vun gala tance ; 
I jumped at dis, vun lifetime chance. 
I took Fraulein, mit golden hair; — 
Denk I, venn musics fill die air 
I vill implore mein luf affaire. 
Ach Gott! Dot vas vun lufely tance! 
Fraulein und I vere in lufe's trance ; 
Ve cuddle close, denn glide und vhirl 
Ven someone says: "Hello old girl! 

Ho, ho, py Golly, 

Pretty Polly, 

Dutchy lufs you, ho, py golly!" 
Dot parrot, perched on vun high rafter 
Yelled und shvore und chuckled laughter. 
Ach, she vas vun holy terror — 
She vas vun almighty shwarer! 

All ears vere strained upon der floor; 
Vot food for gossip 1 Out came more : 
Dot uphigh, hateful demon yells : 
"Dutchy lufs her, ring der bells! 
Everybody's telling it, 
Heard der Dutchman yelling it." 



DUTCHY'S NEWSPAPER VENTURE 



Und Polly — I mean Polly girl, 

Mein rosebud, mein vim priceless pearl, 

Down fell in — vat it is? — vun swoon. 

I yelled at Polly, "Liar, loon, 

You haf alreaty killed her yet; 

I break der neck ven you I get!" 

"Ho, luf und peer und sauerkraut, 
Der Dutchman can not lif mitout," 
Dot green nightmare vas heard to shout. 
Mein freund had told dot fiend mit vings, 
Mein confidence — told everytings. 

I vas disgraced, und Fraulein, too 

She vas mit me forever thru! 

She denk I taught mein bird dot stuff, 

Und 'tvas no use to tell mein luf. 

Mein freund had qveered all tings, py Golly! 

Py der gossips mit dot Polly. 



80 



POEMS 

OF 
YOUTH 



LINES TO SHELLEY 

Hail, hail to thee, great poet! 

Thou who wert borne amain. 
On Inspiration's wings, 

To some empyreal plain, 

And, on mankind, didst priceless treasures rain. 

Drowned in the lake you loved, 

Drowned in Geneva Lake; 
Oh, you who stirred mankind, 

And truths, immortal, spake. 

Did disappear as though a mere snow-flake. 

Thy poor wave-lashed remains 

At length, were dashed ashore ; 
And soon, on Pisa's sand, 

Cremated was thy corse : 

Thy early doom, the world will e'er deplore. 

Deplorable it is 

That oft, the truly great, — 
The ones that help mankind. 

Are early claimed by Fate, 

While many knaves and fools, too long, must wait. 

Thine ashes have their tomb 

In Rome, eternal Rome; 
But in the heart of man 

Thy poetry hath home: 

It lives, thou perished in Geneva's foam. 

Great poet, "Heart of hearts!" 
I seem to know thee well ; 

Though we did never meet, 
A friend, in me, doth dwell : 
I know thyself, if not thy earthly shell. 



85 



JUNE 

Sweet morn in June! The verdant world 
Is one bird-haunted wilderness 

Of blossoms, leaves, — all dew-impearled. 
Which perfume-laden winds caress. 

Day's ball of fire, mounting higher, 
Flashes forth its glorious beams 

From a sky of deep sapphire. 

And floods a wond'rous land of dreams. 

The bird sings loud its happy song, 
And courts its mate; the time of love 

It is, and gold-winged bees now throng; 
Creation sings, below, — above: — 

The breezes murmur through the grass ; 

The earth one happy song doth raise; 
The unseen stars high o'er us pass, 

And, to the maker, sing their praise. 



86 



THE LILY 

The lily swings her snowy bells ; 

For Christ's departure, still, she grieves 
She droops, as holy grief compels, 

While dewy tears gleam on her leaves : 
Her silv'ry bells, as they slowly swing, 
Would chime a hymn, could they but ring. 



87 



TO A DEAD ROSEBUSH 

My Climbing Rose! high didst thou wind 
O'er leafy porch, and spreadest 'round 

Thy limbs, with golden vines entwined ; — 
Thy leaves lie withered on the ground. 

My rosebush! when thou wert in bloom, 
Ev'ry breeze, that near thee sped. 

Thou didst enrich with sweet perfume; 
But, now, alas, my bush thou'rt dead! 

Mournful music, now, I hear 

Whispering through thy branches, bare; 
E'en the breezes held thee dear: 

Good night sweet bush, good night fore'er! 

i^ :^ ^ ^ :^ :^ 

When roses and green leaves adorned 
My sweet rosebush, birds nested there; 

But by these sweet-winged joys 'tis scorned, 
Now, that it's desolate and bare. 

And, so, a life, not beautified 

With any love, is bare and bleak; 

And sweet joys can not, there abide ; 
It is a thing, they do not seek. 



88 



THE ROBIN'S COURTSHIP 

A songster, blithe, sat in a tree. 

" 'Tis mating season, dear," sang he, 

It was a robin on a limb ; 

A glorious song was sung by him. 

A robin maid, a lovely thing. 
Delighted, heard her wooer sing; 
And hoped his tuneful eloquence 
Expressed the truth and not pretense. 

As sweet desire in her woke. 
She tried by manner to invoke 
More ardor, and he plead the more ; 
How sweet to hear the male implore! 

Oh, how he praised that lovely form. 
That brilliant breast, that heart so warm, 
Her modesty, her sweet birdhood; — 
She was the best in all the wood. 

"Oh, be my mate! Thou art my choice, 
And that 'tis so thou shouldst rejoice; 
My treatment will be always tender ; — 
Dearest queen, please, please surrender!" 

But, being wooed did so entrance her 
That she still withheld her answer; 
His courting, she would fain prolong, 
So thrilled she was, by love's sweet song. 

"Oh, robin, dear! I'll give thee rest 
By keeping warm the eggs in nest; 
I'll find the food, and will not ask 
My robin-love to do that task. 

89 



THE ROBIN'S COURTSHIP 



"And ev'ry morn at break of day 
I'll sing to thee a roundelay; 
And many pleasures will be thine, 
My dearest one, if thou'U be mine. 

"My love is genuine, intense ; 
Now, kindly end my great suspense! 
Will we be mates ? Do answer, 'Yes,' 
Else you will wreck my happiness!" 

Her answer came melodiously: 
"Oh, Rob, I know 'twas mean of me 
To keep you guessing, but, my dear. 
Your sweet appeals, I loved to hear. 

"I believe your eloquent, sweet tongue 
Did not deceive, else heart were wrung. 
My heart, your strains did penetrate; 
Yes, dearest, I will be your mate." 

A rustle! but they hear no sound, — 
Their thoughts are high above the ground. 
Again, an ominous, slight noise. 
And now appear two cruel boys. 

A barrel, bright, is seen to flash, — 
Oh, lovers, lovers, why so rash? 
Oh, can't you see? — Awake, take heed! 
Oh your pure hearts will surely bleed. 

There, hurry, fly! Ah, birds, alack! 
A cruel smile, and then a crack; 
A piteous sound, and then — a thud, 
A twitching form is in the mud. 

He gasps, he pants, he writhes in pain. 
Nor can he breathe a dying strain, — 
A last adieu to her on high. 
Who sees her lover writhe and die. 

90 



THE ROBIN'S COURTSHIP 



A lone bird sits, bedazed with grief; 
That he is dead — too sad for beUef! 
Oh, future joys, — a phantom's kiss! 
Death and woe instead of bliss! 

She gazes at that breast of red, — 
Her heart is broken, she is dead. 
She falls into the life blood of 
Her robin-mate, her red-breast love. 



THE END. 



91 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 1 

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